


Bottom-Most Rung

by Crunchy_Frog



Series: Trip A Little Lamplighter [5]
Category: Mary Poppins (Movies), Mary Poppins Returns - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Little bit of angst, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 22:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17413742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crunchy_Frog/pseuds/Crunchy_Frog
Summary: Whistling seemed to pass the time best when Jack found himself when he was out and about, with nothing to do. It wasn’t often that he found himself bored, either being stuck working or avidly avoiding the torment that is boredom. Today, however, was one of those unlucky days where he had absolutely no clue how to entertain himself. Bert was out on a mid-day sweep, covering the job for one of his friends, Angus was out delivering apples to the markets with some of the traders, and all of the other leeries that Jack was friends with seemed to be absolutely swamped with work. All but him.





	Bottom-Most Rung

**Author's Note:**

> There is angst. Sorrrrryyyyyy but I just think that angst brings a level of realism to characters that otherwise don't have conflict canonically present in their lives.  
> Enjoy!

Whistling seemed to pass the time best when Jack found himself when he was out and about, with nothing to do. It wasn’t often that he found himself bored, either being stuck working or avidly _avoiding_ the torment that is boredom. Today, however, was one of those unlucky days where he had absolutely _no_ clue how to entertain himself. Bert was out on a mid-day sweep, covering the job for one of his friends, Angus was out delivering apples to the markets with some of the traders, and all of the other leeries that Jack was friends with seemed to be absolutely swamped with work. All but him. 

He had finished his rounds at _precisely_ seven-fifteen. After that, he’d taken to mindlessly sweeping a sidewalk for ten minutes before deciding it was a frankly _useless_ endeavor. Jack had made his way back to his flat (the thought that he got to share it with two of his closest friends continued to split his cheeks into a glowing smile), and tidied the place three times. A surge of satisfaction had washed over him, until he heard the chime of Big Ben, telling him that it was only eight o’clock. _How have I done all of this in only forty-five minutes?_ Honestly, he thought he might cry out of frustration. 

So, with no intent in his step at all, he changed his clothes to his less-filthy pants, an old overcoat that barely fit him, and his signature cap (learned from Bert, and proudly encouraged by the older man). He scooped up his small sketchbook and pencil, tucking it away in his pocket, before striding out of the abode, taking up his bike and mounting it while trying to go through every possible activity a boy of his age and [very low] status could enjoy without having to pay or be chased off. 

This resulted in him spending exactly forty minutes at the park, poorly sketching out different birds he saw, before one had _relieved_ itself _dangerously_ close to the seat he’d taken on the bench. Since then, he had been skirting around on his bike lazily, waving to the occasional sweep and leerie, swiping some produce off of a crate from an unsuspecting trader. After all, he’d only had half a bowl of lukewarm porridge that morning, before giving the rest of his bowl to Angus, who’d been looking like he needed it much more than Jack, despite Bert’s lectures on him being _‘A growin’ lad that needed all the foo-el he could get.’_

“Why can’ it be alrea’y six…” Jack whined softly to himself, leaning against his bike with the sort of exhaustion that only comes from exasperation. He turned his eyes away from the sidewalk, where he scuffed the toe of his worn-in shoes, and out to the scene before him. 

Plenty of people were passing by, under the blue morning sky. Wives hooked on their husband’s arms, children clung to their mother’s skirts, Nannies pushing prams to and fro. Chatter lulled in and out, mingling with the scuffling and clicking of shoes against the pavement, and the songs of multitudes of birds that cut through the sky. Jack often times couldn’t help but wish he was a bird - void of all status, only focused on flying and making a simple living, not a single self-conscious thought. It sounded like heaven. 

Bert often enough told him about how, even though they were on the bottom-most rung to everyone else, you wouldn’t find people any _happier_ than the working class. Jack had yet to find the truth in this. Perhaps he hadn’t reached the age to find enjoyment in his work? He was only twelve, after all. But, he just couldn’t shake the feeling that Bert told him that because, either, Bert truly was unable to feel anything but joy and satisfaction in _every little thing_ , or it was just a front to keep Jack’s spirits from dipping too low. Both sounded very _Bert_ to him. 

Life hadn’t been good to Jack. His father had been _put away_ , so-to-speak, before Jack could even crawl. His mother and himself had lived off of the reasonable amount of money his father had made for long enough that Jack could conceptualize what even the slightest amount of comfort was. Sadly, they'd run out of money and had been forced into the East End, living off of the poor water and all-but-enjoyable food that was provided. It hadn't been too bad, in Jack's opinion. _It could be much worse,_ Jack often said to himself. But then, his mother was gone. Gone before Jack had turned five. _Typhoid fever_ , he distinctly remembered the doctor saying when she was pronounced - he’d also said something about just how _lucky_ Jack was that he hadn’t caught it. _Lucky_ wasn’t the word that Jack would have used to describe his situation. Jack was supposed to have been swept into the foster care system, when he’d instead found himself in the arms of a workhouse. He wasn’t too sure how he had gotten there, or what lead to him weaseling his way into that god awful place - some things he just blocked out, or plain couldn’t remember. 

Almost immediately, he’d been taken under the wing of a part-time leerie by the name of Tommas Edwards, and was coached by him for a year and half, until he suddenly and very quietly dropped off of the face of the earth (Jack would later learn that he had died of cancer, to his dismay and frank surprise). Soon afterward, Bert had come into his life, like some kind of angel. _He very well could be_ , Jack thought often. Life had been a little more uphill from there, though not by much. _At least no one’s died in a while,_ Jack thought sardonically. _Don’t jinx yourself, stupid._

Still though. He couldn’t find much to be happy about when all he did was light lamps, steal fruit for other people, and pine. What good did being on the bottom-most rung do him, if it prevented him from doing what he wanted? Getting a proper education? _Forget about it._ Being successful in life, and making something of himself? _Not without a proper education, and you already know you can’t get that._ Being able to just breathe the same air as Jane Banks without being afraid that her father will come down on him like sixteen tons? _Not without being successful and having a name for yourself._

____

____

Jack was preparing himself to travel deeper into the rabbit hole of socio-economic inequality and discrimination against the working class when the subject of all his pining, miraculously, appeared across the street from him. A sighting of Jane Banks outside of 17 Cherry Tree Lane was something new to Jack. His eyes widened, his cheeks became like lanterns, and a hopeful little thrum started up in his chest. No matter how much he told himself that all his hopes and dreams would amount to nothing but disappointment, he never could let go of her. The sweetness of her face and lovely disposition were enough to keep him tethered tight to her. _Blasted feelings,_ Jack thought, though he let a warm smile slip over his lips. 

She wasn’t too far from him - just a stone’s throw. She was dressed in a yellow dress and hat that he’d never seen before, with her hair down and bouncing in their soft waves. Her face was neutral, if not a little on the displeased side. Jack so badly wanted to call out to her, wave till his arm was sore and just try to fix the look on her face. Anything other than contentedness and better should never have to be on her face. It just didn’t look right, being there. But he had to restrain himself - at her side was a boy, someone he assumed to be Michael, as Bert had filled him in on the happenings of the Banks family whenever they crossed paths. And, holding her small, delicate hand, was George Banks, a man Jack respected, feared, and held mild disdain for all simultaneously. Lord knows what he would do, or worse _say_ , if Jack tried to even acknowledge the man’s daughter. 

However, before he could mount his bike and cart himself away, Jane’s head turned towards the exact spot where Jack sat. The boy froze, eyes wide and bright, face slack and unknowing of what to do. He watched as her eyes flickered up to her father, checking that he was, in fact, facing forward, before she waved slightly to him, and sent his way a smile so subtle but so bright that it could have challenged the sun. 

All Jack could think to do was wave back, smiling, and mouthing _‘Hi!’_. She nodded, before turning away, and climbing the steps up to the Fidelity Fiduciary Banks. Michael, not so oblivious as their father, frowned and whipped his head back to Jack, who was still standing there, dumbstruck. 

At least he was temporarily lifted from his existential loop. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope that wasn't shitty!  
> Comment and leave kudos if you please!


End file.
